


Mercy

by MooseFeels



Series: Turn Me On [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:08:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean mourns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean lays on the floor of the big empty house and he is silent. 

 

He hasn't said anything since it happened. Sometimes he thinks he should say something, should say anything, and the words inside of him just stop. It's like everything inside of him has stopped. That thing inside of him that made him want- want to eat, want to fuck, want to laugh and scream and rut and run- is broken.

 

He hasn't done anything with the nest at all. He hasn't bought a bed or anything. He just laid a blanket on the floor and he sleeps on top of it, spartan and cold. 

 

Cold is a really good way to describe it, actually. 

 

He found a job at a garage not too far over, and the owner doesn't make him talk to anyone, just lets him go in with his tools and work and work and work. He brings home a paycheck he puts in a bank while he slowly waits to die. 

 

Not in any kind of intentional way, really. Dying more like hoping that lightning bolt falls just so or that tree is unstable in the wind or that cook didn't wash their hands or that piano will fall. Suicide seems like it would take so much effort, and Dean feels tired- he seems endlessly, sleeplessly tired as he lays on the floor and stares at the ceiling and thinks about the promises he broke.

 

Remembering is the only thing he doesn't have to try to do. It comes naturally, like the breathing he can't halt or the heartbeat he can't slow. 

 

He remembers holding Castiel and saying things like "always" and "no matter what." He thinks about breaking away as soon as it all went south. He thinks about that night, in the mirror. Thinks about being selfish with Castiel's body, and maybe it be hadn't- if he hadn't-

 

And then he stops  remembering, because thinking about slipping away from it all comes as easily as crying. 

 

He gets off the floor in the mornings and showers and drinks three cups of coffee. Has some water, too, maybe an apple or some crackers. Drives to the garage and has lunch at noon- fast food or takeout or something. Works all day. Doesn't look children in the eye. 

 

He made that mistake a couple of weeks ago, and he can't repeat that crying jag at work ever again. 

 

Alphas aren't supposed to cry. They aren't supposed to feel anything this sharply or this hard. They're supposed to  be strong. Unshakable. 

 

He wishes he couldn't feel anything, because maybe then this weight in his bones might go away. 

 

Dean tries not to think about Castiel. He tries not to think about how his cheeks flushed or how his eyes sparkled or how brilliant he was, like a star suspended so close Dean was always warm. 

 

It's the second month. Unending. Purgatorial. Hellish. 

 

He gets a phone call from a number he doesn't know- one he's never seen before. He picks up the phone and opens his mouth to say, "Hello?" but the words, the words stop. 

 

There is a long silence. 

 

"I don't," Castiel says, and Dean's heart thunders so loud in his body he almost falls over, "I don't know if this is the weirdest voicemail ever but...this is Castiel Winchester, I'm looking for Dean. This is probably- Jesus, this is probably the number for some family or something or some pretty omega he's hooking up with or something, I don't know. I'm sorry, god, just? Um- ah, if you see him, kinda tall, bow legs, nice lips, tell him I was looking for him. That I'm- I- I'm empty."

 

There's a long pause, and the he hangs up. 

 

Dean holds the phone for a long time. He can't let go of it. He wants to call him back, to scream Please, Please. I love you. I'm yours. I want you, I miss you, it was my fault. We lost the baby because of me. 

 

He falls asleep holding the phone instead. 


	2. Chapter 2

He comes home from the garage the next day, and he’s sitting on his floor eating an apple Bobby threw at him when the phone rings again.

Dean frowns at it. It’s that number again.

He answers it again.

There is the long space of silence, and then a sigh. “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” Castiel says. “Well, okay, actually I do. I mean...this is probably a dead number or something. Some ghost inbox. I don’t know. I- “ Another sigh. “I love you. I love you and you’re the only person I’ve ever loved. I might have been able to love our daughter as much as I love you, but it would have been difficult. It would have been hard.”

The long silence again. Dean sits down on the floor. Castiel’s voice sounds weird over the telephone. It sounds like he’s coming from very, very far away.

“I don’t sleep anymore,” he says. “Not really. The bed is empty without anyone else in it. I’ve never had a bed all my own this long before. I don’t know how people stand it. I bake, though. Not like, not like pot or anything. I tried that, and I think I would have liked it if I’d had someone to fuck. I’m pretty good at baking, actually- I might open a shop on main street. Gabriel certainly thinks I’m good.”

Dean feels his blood go hot and terrible at the mention of another name, before Castiel says, “Gabriel’s my landlord and my friend. He’s nice. That’s not true, actually, he’s terrible and vicious but he’s good to me for some reason. He has some thing with some woman in the city. He goes once a month for three days and comes back with his legs more crooked than yours.”

He laughs, almost like he’s crying. Like it’s the only way he can grab oxygen.

“I miss sex,” he sighs. “I miss laying in bed with you with your dick in my ass and my slick between my legs. I miss your smell. I miss your smell. I hate everyone else’s- god, I glare at other couples, did you know that? Like I want them to burst into flame. God.”

Dean grits his teeth and he pounds his head against the wall.

“I’m sorry I wanted time apart,” he continues. “I mean, I’m...I hate it but I need it. I have a job and people who are kind of friends. But I hurt without out. I hurt...all the time. All over.”

More silence. Dean biting his lips so hard he bleeds.

“And I can’t begin to imagine how you feel. God, first I killed our baby and then I-”

“It’s not your fault,” Dean says suddenly, hoarsely.

“Dean?” Castiel asks.

Dean hangs up.

He pants, horrified, alone in the house, and then he throws the phone so hard it shatters against the wooden walls.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean’s glad the phone has broken, because if it rang again, he would have to answer it, and he doesn’t think he can bear that.

He lays awake that night and goes to work at nine the next morning. Four cups of coffee. A piece of dry rye toast.

He drives over to the garage and he works for two hours, and then his hands start shaking so badly that he can’t get the socket to stay in place. The fourth time it clatters on the concrete floor, Bobby comes in and shouts, “Dammit, son! When was the last time you had a decent meal?”

Dean looks away and shrugs.

Bobby is an older guy. Stout. Brown hair, greying at the temples. Trucker hat and beard. He frowns. “Goddamit, put down the tools and sit for a while. Christ. Look like you’re about to vibrate through the dang metal.”

Dean lets himself be pushed into a chair, and then Bobby says, “Now, listen, I know you ain’t the...the talkin’ type. Real taciturn or whatever...but son, whatever it is that’s hurtin’ you so bad, you’ve got to talk about it. You can’t carry the whole world.”

Dean looks away from him, at the outer wall.

“You didn’t kill a man, did you? Because Benny did, and I’ve done used up all my favors with the local police,” Bobby says.

Dean shakes his head. Pulls a pen out of his pocket and writes on his palm, “We lost the baby.”

Bobby looks at his hand for a long time, and then he pats Dean on the shoulder. Nods grimly.

“You know,” he says. “It’s no one’s fault. You’re either blaming yourselves or blaming each other, and it’s not anyone’s fault. These things happen, as terrible as that sounds. Happens to all kinds of people for no good reason, or any single one you’ll ever be able to guess. Don’t, son. Just, don’t.”

Dean swallows and nods.

Bobby walks away, and Dean stays there for a long while.

When he goes home, the broken phone does not ring, and Dean nearly regrets breaking it.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel keeps calling, but now the phone rings and rings and rings and nothing happens.

There’s no voicemail, there’s no silence he can fill with all of the things that are stuck inside of him. There’s no one who sounds so much like Dean but worse. Hoarse and broken.

Castiel rams his head against the wall over and over again and he shouts, “Goddamnit!” into the ski cabin as loud as he can. “Fuck!”

He slams the phone back into the cradle and he paces.

He sits at his coffee table and he drinks black coffee until four am, and then he leaps onto his bike and heads over to the bakery. He got a job there a couple of week ago on the merit of his baklava, made with the phyllo he managed to make himself. He’s the new guy though, so he works the early morning shift that puts cookie dough in the fridge and the overnight rise on breads in the oven.

He’s shaking and blinking as he tears down the road, and suddenly there’s a tremendous pain and pressure and thump, like a hand from nowhere came out and slapped him from the air.

It’s not a hand, though, it’s a car. It’s a white truck actually, a huge hulk of a machine.

“What the hell!” Castiel shouts. “Jesus, use your lights, dumbass!”

“Cas?” someone calls, and mother of fucking christ, it’s Sam Goddamn Winchester.

Castiel stands up, and his legs are sore from the fall. “Sam?” he says. It’s a question he doesn’t have to ask. It’s one he has the answer to.

Sam looks huge and terrifying. His eyes are wide. He looks amazed.

“Dean told me- well, actually, Dean hasn’t told me anything. He doesn’t...he doesn’t talk anymore,” Sam says. He rubs the back of his neck. “I uh, I kind of gathered that the...that it didn’t work out.”

“I miscarried,” Castiel says. He finds himself angry that the word is unspeakable.

Sam nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I was just driving up to see him. Are you guys still in the house.”

Castiel looks at the ground. “I wouldn’t know,” he murmurs. “I- I- I wanted space after it happened.”

Sam sighs heavily. “Uh,” he says, “would you like breakfast or something? On me.”

Castiel looks at the mangled wreck of his bike and he nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.”

He tosses the bike in the bed of the truck and Castiel climbs in the passenger seat.

Sam climbs back in and he runs his hands over the steering wheel a couple of times. It’s strange- it’s a motion Castiel has seen on Dean so many times. It’s almost like being home.

“Four,” Sam says.

“Pardon?” Castiel asks.

“Four times,” Sam answers. “They were all pretty early on, but...four.”

Castiel feels like he’s been shot.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh my god.”

Sam nods. “Yeah,” he answers. “And it was tough. Like, it was the shittiest two years of my life, okay? But I wouldn’t have made it through- like I don’t think I’d be alive without Jess.”

Castiel frowns for a moment and then blinks. “Jess didn’t carry them, did she?”

Sam smiles sheepishly. “Fertility clinics, man,” he says.

Castiel looks back over the road and comments, “How did you do it? How did you keep trying? How did you keep it together?”

Sam shrugs. “I dunno. And I’m not in your shoes, not even a little bit, but it was so much easier to do it together than to do it alone.”

“I’ve tried calling him,” he says. “I didn’t know about his voice.”

Sam smiles sadly at him. “Yeah,” he comments, looking back at the road. “Yeah.”

They roar into the 24 hour diner, and Castiel eats a whole breakfast for the first time in months.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Dean wakes up hard the next morning. He had a dream, a dream that he was drowning deep under the water and a rabbit dove down down down to the bottom of the inky water to save him and pull him up. 

 

He's panting so hard that the chilly air of the house freezes in his throat and lungs and he coughs viciously. He remembers being there, at the bottom of the lake, and the rabbit looking at him in a way that was strangely familiar and a voice he knew like his own heartbeat, saying, "You don't think you deserve to be saved."

 

He gets off of the floor slowly, and his joints and muscles creak and ache in a way that both makes him laugh and feel deeply uncomfortable. 

 

He doesn't really laugh though- he still can't speak, no matter how hard he's tried and willed it and hated himself for lacking the ability. 

 

He flicks on the coffee maker in the soulless kitchen and drinks three cups. Black. Four sugars. 

 

He shrugs into the least dirty clothes in the pile and heads outside. 

 

He drops his coffee because he's holding on to the doorframe because he's pretty sure he's drowning again, for real. 

 

His brother, holding a box of donuts, and Castiel holding three cups of coffee- sitting on his porch.

 

He gasps, like he must swallow the air like a fish. 

 

"I'm sorry," is the first thing Castiel says. 

 

Dean lets his grip on the doorframe loosen, and he shrinks to the ground.

 

"I know I should have stayed, for you," Castiel continues. I understand that what happened, we should have gone through together. That you needed someone. That you still need someone."

 

Castiel looks a lot like he did when Dean first met him. Like he doesn't eat right and he damn sure doesn't sleep enough.

 

"I had to process it on my own," he says. "And I didn't think about how that would make you feel. Or how any of this would make you feel- I thought you would just bounce and move on and-"

 

Dean shakes his head. Castiel stops speaking, and Dean just shakes his head. 

 

Dean can't pull up words right now, so he just points to Castiel, sharply, and Dean points to himself, sharply, and he shakes his head. 

 

There's no moving on from you. 

 

Castiel nods, shame faced. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I'm sorry I killed her."

 

Dean jumps up and he grabs Castiel by the shoulders. He wants to shake him. He wants to cry. Instead, he says, "You didn't kill our pup."

 

His voice is thick and rough. Unused. 

 

Castiel starts crying. His face and tears are warm where he buries them into Dean's neck and shoulders. His arms are strong but shaking where they wrap around his torso. His voice is lost as Dean's is regained. 

 

"You didn't," he says. "You didn't. No one did." He says it without really believing it at first. "No one did," he repeats. "No one did."

 

He smooths Castiel's hair, and deep in his scalp and his skin is the smell of him- that sweet, sugary, burning, complex smell of Castiel, and underneath that is wood and salt smell of Dean himself. It seems like the first time Dean has smelled something in years. Like the first time rain has fallen in the desert. 

 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Castiel says. 

 

"No one's fault," Dean soothes over him. 

 

No one's fault. 


	6. Chapter 6

They fall asleep tangled in each other on the living room floor- holding each other because they both know that they can never let go.

Castiel wakes up before Dean, and he watches him sleep for a long, long time. He looks at Dean’s worn, pale face- the way his freckles stand a little too stark against his beautiful face. The way his lips are parted to breathe softly. The smell of his breath- sour and stale with too much coffee, and utterly precious. Irreplaceable and magical and his. Dean’s but also Castiel’s.

Castiel reaches forward and he traces the shape of Dean’s lips with his fingertip.

Dean blinks awake and raises an eyebrow, sleepy.

“I missed the shape of you,” he whispers.

Dean smiles and curls a little closer to Castiel. Kisses his neck, just near that spot where the bite had been.

Castiel sighs, and he twists his fingers under Dean’s shirt and onto the warm flesh of his torso. Dean smells so real. He smells ever realer and more important than he ever has before. He smells like one tree, utterly solid. Deep roots drinking deep into the earth and tall branches that reach high into the world. Woody and earthy and real and full. A habitat. A home.

It’s changed. It’s all wood and not the sea. It’s a lot more like the house.

Dean mumbles into Castiel’s skin, “Missed you.”

Dean hasn’t said much. He soothed Castiel last night, and then he told Castiel he loved him, and then there’s this. All of his words have been low and soft. Barely whispers.

Castiel comes out from under Dean’s shirt, and he moves Dean’s hand from his shoulder to his torso- along his side to his hips and then under his own shirt. Dean’s eyes are green and afraid. Wide and scared.

Castiel bites his lips and looks away from Dean’s face. “I-I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

Dean’s hand wraps over Castiel’s torso and pulls him in closer to his body. “Please, don’t be,” he whispers.

Castiel sighs happily. Safely. They are as physically close now as two people could ever be.

“I’m not done,” Dean whispers, “mourning her. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be done. But I love you, and just because I’m sad about the baby, it doesn’t mean that I’m not fully, electrically happy you’re here.”

Castiel smiles. “Yeah, puppy,” he answers. “Me too.”

 


End file.
